30 Kisses
by azure-tears
Summary: [Frankie and Herriman] A series of fluffy oneshots about, naturally, Frankie and Herriman.
1. Topsy Turvey

Author's Note: Well, in a perfect world, this was supposed to be typed up tomorrow on my own computer. Of course, the world isn't perfect. Far from it. My own computer is being overhauled in CompUSA, naturally.

Trixie21's doing a 'series' of one-shots called "Over the Rainbow" (read them now, I command you!) involving Cosmo and Wanda. This is sort of the same idea…only a little different. These are actually from LiveJournal's 30Kisses challenge community, but whatever. (I recommend that too, btw).

Oh, and if you flame this because it's Frankie and Herriman, I will personally hunt you down and rip out your throat. Just a friendly warning.

**Topsy Turvey**

Mr. Herriman had always been a very solitary creature. Yes, he might have feigned enthusiasm and occasionally the company of others when apropos, but other than his creator, no one quite grasped his emotions and he preferred to keep it that way. Thus, love entering the arena overturned the neatly assorted pile of papers on his mental desk and sent him scurrying underneath to retrieve them. Dignity, pride, surety all found themselves stomped on and his heart lurched in his chest. What was it about her that made him lose his composure and fall achingly for her?

A gorgeous sunset, resplendent with shimmering reds, oranges, yellows, and the streak of purple, went completely unnoticed. Instead, the curtains were drawn tightly, inciting stifling heat and, other than a desk lamp, virtual darkness. Cradling his rabbit head in his dress glove clad paws; he stared at the neat stacks of awaiting forms that had been sitting there since one o'clock this afternoon. Normally, a highly efficient creature, he would have finished them in a matter of minutes. Unfortunately, that creature seemed to be in hiding, because all he kept thinking about was Frankie. Every time he shut his eyes, she danced on the back of his eyelids; every time he glanced into his cup, her face swum in the liquid; whenever he fell asleep, she showed up in his dreams.

A sharp rap at the door brought him out of a reverie involving him, Frankie, and a lack of inhibitions he'd never possess in real life. He'd just finished envisioning his paws massaging her back and trailing kisses down her neck when his creator, deciding to take matters into her own hands, strolled in and rapped her cane smartly on the floor. Her sagacious emerald eyes, keener than one might imagine considering her age, swept the untidy office, normally pristine, and, of course, the parchment flooding his desk. He winced, swallowing hard and quickly concocting a flimsy explanation she didn't buy for a second.

"Madame, you, uh, caught me in the middle of-" he lied and she hopped onto his desk with surprising agility to whack him sternly on the top of the head. Rubbing his furry noggin gingerly, he glanced guiltily into her eyes before shifting away. Another rap brought him back to her.

"Daydreaming _again_, Funny Bunny," she chastised, scowling disapprovingly. "It's a wonder anything gets done anymore, with you drifting off like a fourteen year old cat."

Blushing profusely beneath his silvery grey fur, he cleared his throat and, rising out of his seat, hopped to the window to fling open the curtains. On the lawn, Frankie irritably raked the rogue leaves while Bloo cackled gleefully and tossed himself into pile after pile. Opening the window, he caught the words "leaf burning" and the blue, blobby miscreant scurried away before he became a fireball. Mr. Herriman snickered, picturing Bloo aflame and relishing the notion. If it weren't for his deal with Master Mac, he would have shipped Bloo off to the worse home that would have him. Because of Mac, he was forced to relegate the idea to a whimsical fancy.

The setting sun caught Frankie's auburn hair and stole his breath away. It framed her face like a halo and he thought, not for the first time, how like an angel she was. So perfect, beautiful, and so utterly above him. Like considering her angelic, placing her on a pedestal was commonplace for him. After his daily indulgence, he crashed back to Earth with alarming speed and poignancy. Wishing, after all, only wounded the heart.

"You're in love with her, aren't you?" Madame Foster murmured and he jumped, having forgotten she was there in the first place. Below, Frankie bagged the leaves, sternly ordered Bloo to stay away, and then proceeded to take no chances and lock them up. Bloo whined, but she brandished the rake and, muttering uncouthly, he sauntered off, presumably to cause more trouble.

"I…I don't know what you're talking about, Madame," he replied stiffly, unable to stop staring at Frankie. She wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead, leaned the rake against the shed, and, scanning the perimeter, left it there. Immediately, he wanted to scold her, but Madame Foster rapped him on the right rear paw and he hopped up, clutching his wounded appendage. She smirked, shutting the curtains and blocking his view. He opened his mouth to object, but she rapped him again on the same paw. Eyes watering, he hopped back to the desk.

Spreading her hands across his desk and shooting him an incriminating look, she said coolly, "When are you going to tell her?"

Mr. Herriman sputtered, swallowing saliva and choking on it in shock. Madame Foster waited until he calmed down, but she smiled knowingly. What? He was supposed to be the voice of reason here, not here. That was the way it had always been. And he was supposed to be the one in control of his emotions, actions, and mannerisms to a tee. When had the world flipped on him?

"I…" Why should he? What point did it serve? She'd never share his emotions or even accept them. He was beneath her, beneath radar and all importance. Besides, there were other, better suitors out there. She was destined for such better things than him.

He wasn't the same species…or real. Why should she turn to an imaginary rabbit when she could have a human that hadn't bossed her around, condescended to her, and was the bane of her existence? He knew she cursed his name under her breath, doubtlessly dreamed about torturing him like he imagined bothering Bloo, and how much she hated him. Once again, what was the point? He'd never change her and he shouldn't bother to try.

"You've never been in love before, have you?" she called, breaking him out of his endless self doubt and low confidence in romantic matters. He blinked, waiting for the throbbing to subside. Though she never deliberately hit him hard, the wounds smarted, nonetheless. Her eyes shone compassionately and, walking around the table, she hugged him around his midsection and then hopped onto the chair with him.

He didn't answer, but he found her presence comforting. She waited, but he kept his mouth shut. Sighing, she hopped onto his desk so there wasn't such an obvious height difference.

"It's not as wonderful as it's cracked up to be. Yes, people in love tend to be happier, but then there's the fact that love itself can be terrifying. How do you know if the person reciprocates? What if they don't? What if they're with someone else or care for another? What if they keep making the same mistakes and you're forced to take a sideline view while they hurt themselves again and again?

"The world is full of what-ifs and might have beens, Funny Bunny. The point is- you won't know until you open yourself up. Yes, you risk rejection, but the thing is if you never speak, you'll automatically lose."

Nodding to himself, he realized that while the world hadn't righted itself (far from it), it at least made a semblance of sense. And he could live with that.

Frances "Frankie" Foster glanced up at the window she knew his office to have. Her stomach somersaulted and she quickly turned, putting both it and the creature within out of her mind. Stupid dreams- what did they mean? Nothing. Just because she awoke wishing his kisses were real and dissatisfied he wasn't sharing the bed with her symbolized nothing. It probably meant she thought she had a good relationship with men or animals or something stupid. Dreams were never to be taken literally, were they?

How could it be an exploration of her deepest desires? She hated him, after all. Well, she hated him because of all the work he ordered her to do at ungodly hours and within unreasonable amounts of time. But she loved him because he was her grandmother's creation and she couldn't remember her life without him.

There it was. Love. She meant love platonically, didn't she? After all, there were so many differences between them, not to mention age and species. Differences like that were unbridgeable, weren't they? She ought to be looking at human men her own age, not wasting her time fantasizing about the one creature that wasn't. She ought to be, but she knew she couldn't because it was already too late.

Mac was a sharp kid, as previously established the second night the Foster's crew knew him. He also observed others closely and pinpointed miscommunications, interpreted body language, and discovered feelings never verbalized mentally, much less vocalized. Bloo, naturally, disliked doing what he considered "people watching" and sat in the den half asleep, staring at the TV blankly. As far as Mac was concerned, this held more appeal, since creatures often ran to him for advice. His shy nature and curiosity led to sitting on the park bench or staring out the window and wondering about people's squabbles and disagreements.

Frankie yanked open the front doors, stretched, greeted him warmly, and grinned, exhausted but pleased her workload had finished. She tousled his hair affectionately and pivoted upon hearing the tell-tale hops. The smile faded and she folded her arms across her chest. Mac scrutinized the imaginary rabbit and blinked, surprised to discover a deep blush that, fortunately for his sake, disappeared as quickly as Frankie's mirth. His eyes shot to Frankie; had she noticed it? No, it seemed not, because she was staring fixedly at him.

"Let me guess- 'here's another scroll that'll stretch from here into the end of the nearest hallway of chores'?" she said lightly, but her joviality was forced. Mr. Herriman's face fell.

"I…no." Confidence failed him and, distinctly ruffled, he wordlessly hopped back to his office. Frankie and Mac frowned; she shook her head to dispel the oddness of the situation. Smiling again, she sat beside him on the first step.

"Well, that was weird," Frankie said, rolling her eyes. "Sometimes I don't understand that rabbit at all."

Mac, meanwhile, mulled these recent events and decided, though the conclusion itself was odd and not exactly foolproof without more evidence. Wilt and Eduardo passed, talking animatedly. The purple, furry, bull-like imaginary friend nuzzled Wilt and he jumped, hitting his head on a low hanging doorway. Amazing the things you noticed when you had the opportunity. Creatures liked their secrets, but there were always little things that tipped you off. It could be a gaze that lasted a second too long, a touch that caused the other to jerk away swiftly, or, in Ed's case, a blatant display of love. Mr. Herriman, of course, probably would never evolve to the level of comfort and openness Eduardo exhibited, but he also knew that he was bound to have experienced this at least once in his life. And, if his blush meant anything, it materialized around Frankie.

"I think I do," he replied, staring at the walnut door. She glanced at him quizzically, but, rather than replying, he darted off to say goodbye to Bloo and leave before Terrence finished off all the food in the fridge and he missed dinner.

Things can be so simple to everyone else, but the two creatures involved. Then again, when is love ever simple? Has science ever deigned to fully explain it? Shouldn't some mysteries be left unsolved?

That night, Frankie dreamt again of them. A starry, clear night with every star in the sky illuminating the whiskers on his face and his soft fur. He held her hand in his paw and leaned in to kiss her. When she awoke, she was disappointed again.

Shutting his eyes in his four poster, Mr. Herriman found himself on the beach. Waves lapped the shore and sand squished under his paws. Normally, he'd hate this, but Frankie was beside him and smiling so happily, his heart melted. She wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned in…

The alarm had never been less welcome in his life.


	2. TLC

Author's Note: This is another one-shot.  


TLC

Mr. Herriman limped along, mindful to hide his abnormality to the house. Two days previously, he'd the bad fortune to chase a rude, inconsiderate imaginary into the woods and trample over an exceedingly sharp thorn which embedded itself in his paw. Normally, such pain should have subsided after a duration, but he'd also been hapless and stepped on broken glass on his way out. Now, any creature would normally curse at such a predicament, but he kept his mouth shut. In fact, he hadn't even told his creator, with whom he shared a mental bond akin to telepathy, about his injury. He smiled painfully and pretended nothing was wrong.

Landing heavily on his injured right paw, he ignored the liquid agony soaring through his body and narrowly avoided biting his lip. Hopping antagonized tender tissue and he inevitably stumbled onto the swollen parts. Still, he'd grin and bear it. Why should anyone know what he endured? It hardly concerned them and, besides, it was just a minor thing. Nothing to really worry about.

"Mr. H, are you _okay_?" a voice called and, pivoting rapidly (collapsing but catching himself ere he and the wall met again), he spun to face her. Immediately, the color rushed to his face; beneath his silvery grey fur, he blushed crimson. Frankie, his Achilles' heel. She never failed to rush his heart or steal away his precious composure.

Her eyes flew to his inflamed paw and she gingerly stepped forward to inspect it. Instantaneously, he leapt backward like she brandished a rifle and cringed, slamming down onto his right. It felt like someone struck a hammer on his paw's sole and it traveled up instead of down. His eyes watered, but he said nothing. There was no pain. He simply imagined everything. Yes, that was it. The imaginary friend had a vast imagination and constructed this in his mind. If he didn't recall the agony, it didn't exist.

"P-perfectly fine, Miss Frances," he lied, edging into the parlor, but her quick reflexes and healthy body impeded his progress. She cast him a stern look, similar to what he gave her habitually. The blood danced in his face, but before he could construct another loose tale, she attempted to hoist and examine him for herself. Unfortunately, she failed to take into consideration his weight and the two plummeted, his face pressed into her chest.

If it weren't for his foot's agony, he could really get used to this position. The blood rushed to Frankie's face too, and, muttering under her breath about stupid 'hormones' and 'feelings she couldn't understand for the life of her', she awkwardly stood, aiding him too. Her cheeks resembled her fiery hair and, when her hand clutched his gloved paw, it held on for a bit too long. Abruptly wondering mentally what on earth was wrong with her; she yanked it away hastily and surveyed the area, praying no one viewed this atrocity. Fortunately, imaginary friends had better things to do than spy on two creatures in denial.

A few moments passed before either quite remembered what had led to them being in such a predicament. Staring blankly, Mr. Herriman sought fruitlessly to ignore his constantly throbbing paw and Frankie imagined kissing him only to halt herself with a shake of her head. What was wrong with her? Jeez. She'd worked in this house too long. She needed a vacation.

"I suppose you will be attending to the other denizens of Foster's now," he murmured, eyes never leaving her jade ones. "I shall leave you to your tasks and…"

"Oh, now I remember!" she cried, pointing her finger at him accusingly. "You are going to go to the…"

Vet? Doctor? Well, technically speaking, he was a rabbit, but she'd never been with him on any medical excursion. Did his ability to speak mean he was closer to human than animal? Or didn't it figure in at all? Well, there was only one way to find out.

"You're coming with me," she said finally, deciding she'd discover wherever the heck he went when she got there. If the vet said no, she'd go to the doctor. If not him, then maybe whoever specialized in imaginary friends. Imaginary friends close enough to an animal or human guise visited whatever suited them best, if she remembered correctly.

"I…I do not believe that is necessary, Miss Frances," he muttered, hopping away and fumbling, hitting his paw and tumbling to the floor. He bit back a howl and, sighing like she dealt with a stubborn child, she knelt down to stroke his fur. The motion entranced her, and, for a minute, she ran her fingers through his ears' fur and nuzzled him. Then, suddenly returning to her senses again, she jumped back, maladroitly maneuvered him towards the front doors, into the Foster's bus, and buckled him in. Honestly, she thought sometimes she was losing her mind.

* * *

As it turned out, the correct answer yielded- "vet". Casting a surreptitious look at both owners and animals alike, Mr. Herriman squirmed like a small child forced to sit still for prolonged periods of time. Rolling her eyes, Frankie squeezed his right paw innately to comfort him, but she'd forgotten their unspoken attraction and feelings. Heat rushed to their faces and, shifting her eyes to the floor, she guiltily jerked her hand away lest anything untoward occur. She bade her butterflies begone, before he noticed, but he seemed to suffer the same and didn't notice. However, unbeknownst to her, he unconsciously wished she hadn't released him. Abashed, she glanced at the receptionist. 

"Jeez, where _is _this guy?" Frankie muttered, meaning the veterinarian who assured her he'd see them right away. Then again, given the amount of people and creatures crammed into such a small waiting area, she sincerely doubted the validity of his statement. No less than four cats mewled plaintively, wrinkling their noses distastefully at their cat carriers. Bored, their owners leafed through dog-eared magazines and tossed them aside. Their appointment had been for eleven o'clock and, according to her wrist watch (a present from him, ironically), it was now eleven forty. So much for punctuality.

Disregarding the cats, there was relative, minutely punctuated silence. At least, there was until a great, resonating bark jolted the owners out of their reverie and Mr. Herriman out of a peaceful, albeit resentful rest. Jerking his head about, he sought the location and prayed it wouldn't enter here. However, the hopes were fruitless- this was, after all, a vet's office. In all likelihood, a bountiful puppy was bound to enter sooner or later.

The fur on his arms stood on end as it jumped inside, flinging open the door its owner tentatively opened. Slobbering, despite its mammoth size, it behaved like a pup. Mr. Herriman, naturally, couldn't care less. Swallowing hard, he assured himself that the dog probably didn't think it was happy hunting seasons for rabbits (if it thought at all, he reminded himself steely), and, if it did, its owner would put a stop to it. Nonetheless, his imagination began to run away with him; he pictured it leaping 'playfully' on his chest only to rip out his heart and, trotting cheerily, produce it to a glowing owner. Bile rose in his throat; he forced it and the following image, of it tearing out his throat and painting the walls in his blood, down. He glanced at Frankie desperately.

The dog growled teasingly, a large, shaggy St. Bernard. Mr. Herriman whimpered, once again driving his terrified thoughts back. Wagging its tail, it leapt forward to sniff curiously at his wounded paw. It opened its mouth, perhaps to lick him, but, in his mind, to tear off his foot, and he'd enough. He flung himself into Frankie's arms, pressed his face into her neck, and wrapped his arms around her neck.

"Wow," its owner remarked, finally stepping inside and sweeping a green hat off her head. Long blonde hair spilled onto her broad shoulders which were covered in a green Jets jacket. She appeared to be middle aged, but her blue eyes shone youthfully. In her calloused hands she clasped the dog's leash, rather long and loose.

"It's a huge rabbit…must be imaginary."

Fighting an urge to snap "gee, thanks for noticing!", Frankie patted her boss on the head affectionately and stroked his furry, velvety ears. He murmured incoherently, hardly placated, and clung to her for dear life. Again, her heart pounded, palms sweated, and she simultaneously wished he'd calm and, at the same time, relished this role reversal. Plus, there was a clandestine, whispering side that said, "you know you like it when he's clutching you like this". He lay dangerously close to her and, in fact, if he lifted his head a fraction and she inclined hers…no, bad thoughts. First things first, she must coax him into relinquishing his hold on her and inform the dog's owner of his paralyzing fear of canines. From there, she'd hopefully see reason and yank it away before anything drastic happened.

"It's an enormous…disgusting…drooling…_real _dog," Mr. H gasped, shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. Even in a world where imaginary friends resembled real animals strongly enough to mistake the two, most adults cast aside their friends, regardless of their forms. There were, after all, exceptions (the most notable being him), but, as a general rule, humans kept pets, not imaginaries.

"I wouldn't call him 'disgusting'," the woman chortled, petting it affectionately on the head. It slobbered her hand and, tail still waggling, grinned at Herriman. Of course, a grinning dog is not quite the same thing as a grinning human. In fact, for someone who had a great apprehension and mistrust of dogs, he was prepared to go out on a limb here and say this was a bad thing. And, of course, he'd be right. Dogs don't smile and when they do, they're grinning at dinner.

Mr. Herriman's paws dug into Frankie's throat and, releasing a mournful cry, he grabbed her hard enough to hurt. Desperately she swiveled her neck to displace him, but he held fast. Normally, dogs robbed him of composure, and, now, any semblance remaining fled the immediate vicinity. Being a rabbit, despite his imaginary status, he naturally feared dogs, but confronted with one after a certain traumatic event in his life expedited the normally elusive instinctive trait. The only problem was, the more frightened he became, the less air Frankie received.

Oblivious, the dog nipped jovially at his injured paw and Herriman shook severely, similar to one having a mild seizure. Panicking herself, barely getting any oxygen, she inexpertly maneuvered them into two chairs across the room. The dog followed, tantalized. It yipped, snapping its jaws precariously close, and the grip on her neck tightened excruciatingly, and then slackened. The owner, slowly understanding the proceedings, yanked on the leash, but it was too late. Mr. Herriman passed out in Frankie's arms.

Moving him when he was conscious was one thing, but unconscious and he was dead weight. However, whereas in the past she might have complained, no curse words or objections came to mind when she gently placed him onto the stretcher dragged out. This was her duty, wasn't it? She had an obligation to him and she was going to see it through. Never mind it didn't feel like a job anymore, but out of the goodness of her heart.

After his fainting episode, the vet decided to examine him. He paced around, scrutinizing his footpaw from all angles. Frankie waited agitatedly, expecting him to diagnose the problem as worse than it was. Yes, the paw itself had swollen and looked nasty, but while she administered first aid to the imaginaries that hardly qualified her to specify what ailed him. Every 'tut' sent her nerves and stomach roiling and the silence gnawed at her. Was he going to be all right? It wasn't serious, was it? How could it be? But…what if it was? Would she have to take care of him? What if had to be operated on? No, that was ridiculous. Or was it?

"Is he going to live?" she blurted, blushing crimson at the foolishness of her question the instant it left her mouth. Honestly, it sounded better in her head.

"He's alive now, isn't he?" the vet replied noncommittally, prodding his paw. Mr. Herriman groaned, curling into an approximate fetal position. The corners of his lips shifting indeterminately, the vet retrieved a set of bandages and began to encase it. Frankie couldn't help but notice he jerked harshly; if this was her, she'd be tenderly wrapping him. Cheeks flushing further, she shifted her focus.

"But yes, he'll be fine, provided he avoids a great deal of walking, er, hopping, and tries no strenuous exercise," he added, completing and rapping him on the head to rouse him. Frankie's eyes narrowed- why was he treating him like an animal? Okay, so he technically was, but he acted so human, one tended to ignore that little tidbit. She personally saw him as a human trapped in a rabbit's body. (Might that explain her odd thoughts towards him as of late?)

Nodding curtly, wondering how much he'd charge them for his brusque attitude, she rushed to Herriman's side and aided him to the door. The vet's eyebrow rose quizzically, seeing something neither had acknowledged yet. Shaking his head and muttering darkly, he disappeared into his office to compile their damage, er, bill.

* * *

On the bus ride home, he glanced dispiritedly out the window and said nothing. At a light, she opened conversation and broke the rush. It wasn't like him to be silent around her. Usually, he found fault with _something _she did and never failed to critique her endlessly. Instead, he had trouble looking into her eyes through the rearview mirror. Odd. 

"So, Peter Cottontail," she teased lightly, "how long have you been hiding that paw?"

Ashamed, lowering his head, he muttered, "Three weeks. Madame Foster nearly caught me five times in that span."

Shaking her head, astonished, she waggled a finger admonishingly. "You know, you have to let someone take care of you once in a while. That's your problem. You're too self reliant and you think that if you have a problem, you can just fix it yourself. It doesn't always work that way. If I prick you, do you not bleed?"

Wordlessly, he stared blankly out the window at the passing cars. Many went a few miles above the speed limit but rather than chastise them, he kept his comments to himself. His forehead pressed against the glass as the midday sun illuminated the nearby automobiles and shone on her hair brightly. He ought to say something, shouldn't he? He owed her that much.

"Thank…thank you, Miss Frances," he murmured sheepishly. "You did not have to attend to me and-"

"Call me _Frankie_, jeez," she said, shaking her head. "If you can be 'intimately' familiar with my chest and neck, you can call me by my nickname."

The color rushed to his face, obscured by his silvery grey fur, and hers when she realized exactly what had left her mouth. Shaking her head and hanging it, she recalled the last time she'd been this bad speaking with someone; it'd been because she liked them in more than a friendly fashion. The recollection burned her cheeks further, hot enough to boil an egg. Maybe he wouldn't notice…or maybe he was blushing just as fiercely as her.

"Um…shall we go in?" she squeaked, unable to look him in the face. She supposed he nodded, though it was rather difficult to tell since she wasn't sure he could look him in the eye for a week after that comment. Even now, it conjured images of the two under the covers…and uh, was it hot in that bus?

"Yes!" he blurted, hopping too speedily and falling straight into her arms. Wasn't this where they started?

Helping him to his feet, they darted as quickly as possible into the house, where they didn't meet each other's eyes for a week.

* * *


	3. Life Cycle of Fire and VDay

Author's Note: Two one-shots this time. The first one's more of a drabble than a one-shot, but anyway...

Sorry for the absence. I hadn't realized it'd been that long since I updated this story. Oh, and in the second one-shot, there's some Mac/Bloo. You know it's my second fave.

And Foster's does not belong to me. No.

**Life Cycle of Fire**

Fire. Its warmth beckons, yet simultaneously ostracizes and condemns. Yellow flames leap, abounding in both protection and destruction. It provides illumination, yet also alerts others to another's position. It sears into food, yet cooks human flesh just as efficiently. It spills out onto the heavens, yet grounds into embers without enough fuel or, its natural enemy, water. The very duplicity of fire aligned with love and its nature as the double edged sword. That which pleases us can also destroy us.

Fire has always reminded Mr. Herriman of Frankie. Her temper surges like flames lent strength, yet can be gone as quickly as it rose. His elements, air and water, can either send her sky high or return to her humble roots. One furious look renews the cycle and one calm glance can quell it. Whatever stokes the fire can either help or hinder it. Whenever he studies her, hair tumbling out of the ponytail in a haphazard mess, he can hear the fire in his heart crackling. Whenever she goes out on a date with another normal human male, the fire roars, threatening to destroy everything in its path like a whirlwind of chaos and death. Whenever she returns empty handed and dejected, it longs to cast aside all shadows and warm her. And whenever she smiles at him in that special way, he soars and the fire makes his extremities tingle. She's the precious wood that powers him, and, even when they argue, it revels in her presence.

Yet what happens when the embers die down and all that's left is the memory, sparking in winter's night? He's seen evidence of love's castaways and victims. Their hearts shatter, sometimes irreparably. Yet he remains confident that he will not let this happen to him. Because no matter how badly love, like fire, can damage someone, it can also heal them.

And that's why he cups fire between his paws. Because regardless of whether it burns him, he needs it just the same.

* * *

**V-Day**

White day, Valentine's day, call it what you will, but Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends was bedecked in pink, white, and red. Decorated hearts sprung from the banisters, ceilings, and walls. Imaginary friends designed as Cupid and little cherubs frolicked while Madame Foster reveled. Valentine's Day was among her favorites, particularly because she could always rib Mr. Herriman about his staunch and irrefutable dislike of it. This year, however, she had another concern. It might be Valentine's Day and couples that hadn't been outward before might be more inclined to show their colors, but there was one hitch- Frankie.

They weren't entirely sure how it happened, but living in a house full of imaginary friends who spend their time doing who knows what can lead to it. Somehow, unbeknownst to her, someone had suffered from the flu and been so kind as to pass it on. Bedridden, the normally vibrant Foster now sniffled, coughed, and stared stoically at the ceiling while her temperature arched. For the past week, the friends of Foster's were ordered to do their part, since Frankie couldn't clean their messes (she'd tried, but after catching her washing the dishes with a mop, Mr. Herriman gently whisked her away). Of course, this led to Bloo taking advantage and the large, grey and white furred imaginary rabbit behaving surprisingly astringent. If Madame Foster didn't know better (and she might not, all things considered), she'd say he was worried. Yet he made such a show of scoffing about her activities outside the house and pinpointing her juvenile misbehavior, one wondered if he wasn't poorly covering for something.

Today happened to also be his turn to care for her. Blushing profusely, he carried a silver tray laden with soup and herbal tea (her grandmother's idea, not his). Ironically, he resembled the butler Bloo had once accused him of being. For this reason, he avoided the tiny blob imaginary friend; he loathed him and he knew the creature shared the emotion. Any excuse to embarrass him he'd readily take.

"Miss Frances?" he called, nudging the door open and wincing when a cherub imaginary zoomed over his head and careened into the nearest wall. It righted itself, squawked indignantly, and spat a card at his floppy rabbit ears. Muttering darkly about incorrigible creatures and this infernal 'holiday', he eased his way inside and, placing the tray down, he gently closed the door. The usual cacophony of friends silenced, unable to penetrate the door.

Eyes shut, sound asleep, she rolled under the plethora of covers. Tousled, sweaty red hair splayed across her forehead and his breath caught in his throat. Even sickly, she was simply divine. Her chest rose and fell simply, the beauty of life contained within. He might not admit it, but he was glad she slept soundly. Otherwise, she'd start up on him standing there, staring at her and smiling softly. Naturally, she had no idea what effect she possessed on his system and, frankly, she was better off not knowing.

"Frankie…" he exhaled, hopping to her side and stroking her sodden locks. She moaned, eyelids fluttering. Jumping back as if stung, the color rushed to his cheeks. What if she arose while he gawked? What if she discovered his secret?

Guiltily placing the tray onto an adjacent table, he withdrew, paw on the doorknob when she spoke. Feverish but lucid enough to understand, it perplexed him. No one appeared to be approaching and, besides, any opportunity to spend alone time with her he greatly appreciated. Ears lolling, he hopped closer and cocked his head intently.

"Mr. H…" she murmured, tossing her head. "Mr. H…"

Was she conjecturing or was she cognizant of his presence? Creeping towards her bed, he lightly rested on the edge and brushed her heated hand. Again, a soft cry, plaintive, like a cat's mewling. Scarcely breathing, hanging on her every whisper, he waited impatiently and, scanning the perimeter, he tentatively pressed her hand into his.

"I'm sorry…"

Hmm? For what? Well, certainly those arguments- she ought to have seen things his way sooner, but he'd stopped holding that against her the day he realized he loved her. For getting sick? Given all the tasks Foster's demanded and his anal nature (he confessed to this mentally, but never publicly), it was only a matter of time before she succumbed to something. While the old him might have speculated on incorrigible activities committed outside his jurisdiction, the new one entertained far better hopes and doubted she'd indulge in wanton acts of self destruction. Then again, this present self also jealously wanted her for himself.

"I didn't mean to…please forgive me…"

Perplexed, he longed to interrupt and inquire what, but if he did, he might throw her off and alert her to him, thus ending it. Torn, he waited, that interminable wait. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead and one trickled down her cheek. He leaned forward to wipe them off with his handkerchief, and then halted, petrified any action would impede her. What to do? What to do? Oh, the suspense was killing him.

"I'm sorry…"

Yes, yes, she'd gotten to that already! He fought the urge to snap "for _what_?" rudely and, swallowing hard, he forced himself to calm down. Contrary to popular opinion, he was not endowed with a great deal of patience (though in other areas, he was quite well off). Yet, for Frankie, he'd do anything. If it meant stapling his mouth shut, he'd gladly do it, regardless of the pain. He was hopelessly devoted to her.

"I never meant…don't hate me…"

Rising and releasing her hand, he gulped back a scream and hopped to the window to press his forehead against the cool glass. Outside, the day proved warm enough to hold a miniature picnic and Bloo dragged his creator every which way, carrying him like a prize trophy. Mac protested weakly, blushing heartily nonetheless. Six years had passed, but Bloo was just as attached to his creator as ever. Actually, more so, in ways Mr. Herriman preferred not to think about. Any topic containing Bloo was bound to be annoying, or, at least, troublesome. So long as he left him alone, he didn't care who he paired off with.

"Mr. H…" she whispered. "I'm sorry…sorry I fell in love with you…"

The bottom dropped out of his stomach and he prodded his inner ear; he had to have misheard her. Naturally, he didn't dare believe it. He had to ask; she'd tempted the fates too much. Mouth dry, he sped to her and wiped her forehead off with his pocket handkerchief, the Foster's symbol embroidered. Tilting her head, she kissed his paw tenderly and he realized- not only did she mean it, she knew he was here. Probably had the whole time.

"And I…Miss Frances, Frankie, I am sorry as well. I have not been entirely honest in the past few months. I love you dearly and I apologize for any undue misery you suffered at my paws. I…I am in love with you too."

The words hung in the air like a gentle kiss blown to a slumbering child. Frankie nodded, though whether she understood or not he couldn't tell. A few hushed moments passed; the steady rise and fall of her chest alerted him she'd fallen asleep again. Bending, he kissed her on the cheek and, after tucking her in, hopped out.

* * *

Unfortunately, having a fever can be akin to a drunken haze and Frankie remembered nothing a week later, when she fully recovered. Heart broken, he attempted to behave like the incident never occurred, but considering what might have been ate him up inside. How could she forget something so crucial? What if it'd been an illusion brought on by his wishful thinking? What if he'd dreamt it all? He daren't bring it up, lest she looked at him strangely and he exposed himself needlessly. 

_White days like this only come once a year…_

* * *

Two weeks passed since Valentine's Day and, dejected, Mr. Herriman stared determinedly at the floor instead of his meal. Madame Foster prodded him encouragingly, but he only masticated half heartedly. He'd taken to avoiding Frankie, speaking with her only when absolutely necessary, and hiding in his office. While his creator understood putting his innermost feelings on the line only to be rebuffed by her incomplete memories pained him, she also advocated discovering whether it was the illness speaking or if she truly meant it. Mr. Herriman, already doubting the legitimacy of her confession, denied any possibility. While she didn't want to interfere in matters of the heart, she knew he was driving her mad. 

And so, she did the only sane thing a woman in her position could do. She hoodwinked him.

Belated Valentine's arrived nearly daily, delivered by a mysterious creature and unsigned. Flustered and agitated, he chucked them straight into the trash, and, when they resurfaced, tossed them into the fireplace. Hardly surprised by this turn of events but irritated nonetheless, she sought a new method. However, the next idea leapt into her lap frighteningly quickly.

* * *

Frankie sighed, staring at herself in the mirror. Mentally, she berated herself, reminding herself that the incomplete recollection was bound to be a dream, nothing more. Did she want it to be more? She'd noticed Mr. Herriman evading her, but her own relief prevented her from questioning his motives. Steering clear of him prevented her from the oh-so familiar train of thought- was it a dream? If it was, did that disappoint her? Please her because it took the pressure off? What if he really did feel that way and hurt him by not acknowledging it? 

"Stupid Valentine's Day flu," she muttered, shutting the medicine cabinet and jumping upon spotting her grandmother. Blushing heavily, she smiled insincerely and hoped she hadn't innately picked up on her train of thought. Though she didn't share a bond with her, she somehow usually knew what her granddaughter thought or did before she did it. It was uncanny.

"Hello, dearie," she greeted cordially, piercing emerald eyes shattering her mental walls and barriers before she could rush to construct them. Abashed but uncomprehending why, she awkwardly tried to move into the hall, but she impeded her progress. An eagle like look crossed her face; inquisition time. Lovely.

"Um, hi, Grandma," she said, gnawing the inside of her lip. "I have to, you know…"

Grand, she'd forgotten whatever lay ahead of her. Cursing mentally, she ran through the list Mr. Herriman usually assigned her, but whenever she came to the next task, it transformed into a blank slate. Instead, she thought of _him _and what she thought might have happened. Her face resembled a tomato and, dragging her out of her reverie, Madame Foster cackled.

"See Herriman?" she replied casually and, splashing water on her face, she decided not to reply. It might be safer.

A cane prodded her in the leg and, wincing in anticipation of a whack, she slowly slid her eyes over. A complacent smirk lit her grandmother's face and, flinging the door open with her cane, she gestured towards Mr. Herriman, who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like Frankie, the blood rushed to his face, but, unlike Frankie, he had the luxury of fur concealment. The two stared blankly like deer caught in the headlights.

"Frankie, meet my imaginary friend, Mr. Herriman. Mr. Herriman, Frankie," she teased and their faces reddened further. "Oh, I'm sorry, are you two already acquainted?

"Then what in the blazes are you doing, pretending you don't care about each other? Just tell each you love them and get on with it! Honestly, this isn't a soap opera!"

Drawing back her cane, she rapped them smartly on the paw and leg respectively, and then hobbled out, muttering about creatures not knowing what's good for them. Frankie rubbed her wound gingerly (it smarted a great deal) and sat on the hamper to nurse it. Mr. Herriman limped closer, finally resting on the closed toilet seat. Their eyes met and shot off in opposite directions again. Repeatedly, until Frankie sighed exasperatedly and reluctantly gazed at him.

"Um, Mr. H, about V-Day…" she muttered sheepishly, glad the last of the pain was leaving.

"Yes?" he said, instantly attentive, ears reflecting his newfound interest. She restrained a laugh- he reminded her of a puppy dog awaiting a tennis ball.

"I…I…" _C'mon, girl, what do you have to lose? You've already looked the fool many times in his eyes, intentionally or not. Worse comes to worst, you can write it off as a result of your 'inappropriate behavior' and get on with your life. Well, maybe that last part won't be as easy as it sounds…_

"Yes?" he breathed, rising unsteadily and standing so dangerously close. Badly she longed to kiss him- since when could a kiss be misconstrued? Yet therein lay the problem, that there was no taking it back, either. Did she dare put herself on the line?

Struck by indecision, she toppled off the hamper and draped her arms around his neck as a safety precaution. His arms wrapped around her waist and he inclined his head. Tentatively, hoping if she was mistaken, she could blame it on a lack of balance; she brushed her lips against his. Startled, pleased but too astonished to properly react, he pushed her away, but she fell completely off and the two, hitting their heads, struck the floor.

* * *

"Ew…do we _want _to know what happened here?" Bloo asked, wrinkling the spot on his face where his nose ought to be. It was in this state he and Mac found them five minutes later, recovering on the third story private bathroom floor. 

"Um, no, not really," his creator affirmed, frowning. "Frankie, do you want a hand?"

Frankie, massaging the developing bump, shook her head. She cast the imaginary rabbit a nasty look and he smiled apologetically, rising to his back paws with surprising dexterity. He aided her swiftly, glaring at Bloo heatedly. The imaginary blob smirked, rocking back and forth and finally catapulting himself into Mac's arms where he lingered, purring contentedly. Mac blinked, but, apparently, had grown accustomed to it.

"We're perfectly fine, thank you," Mr. Herriman snapped, embarrassed he'd been caught in such a compromising situation by the friend he loathed the most.

"Er, okay," Mac said, retreating before he received a tongue lashing. Cradling his beloved friend, he speedily exited.

"I'm sorry," Frankie said, scowling. "I shouldn't have tried to kiss you. That was obviously a mistake."

Shaking his head, he wrapped an around about her shoulders and, glancing around to ensure no one watched them, he nuzzled her affectionately. The color shot to her cheeks rapidly and she gawked, flabbergasted.

"Happy belated Valentine's Day," he whispered, before kissing her to compensate for all the doubt, disturbance, and depression the last two weeks had brought. As you can imagine, it was quite a kiss.

* * *


	4. The Rainy Day Song

Author's Note: You might have noticed I removed the last chapter and replaced it with this. There's a reason. I don't feel like interspersing a series with one-shots. I'm going to repost "Chess" under a separate entry, a story called "Mind Games". Besides, I'm doing so many Mac/Bloo hints in there, it probably shouldn't be in a Frankie/Herriman collection.

At any rate, I posted this a long time ago in 30Kisses on LJ, but I noticed I didn't post it here, so here it is.

Foster's ain't mine. No.

"The Rainy Day Song" (Theme- Foggy Day)

Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends normally stood tall and proud, far surpassing other surrounding structures in its size and grounds. However, today, recognizing it in the heavy condensation either took a skilled eye, or, in Frankie's case, a bit more patience. Unfortunately, while she possessed more patience in her pinky than most did in her their entire bodies (thanks to her daily troubles and tasks), her tank had recently drifted over to empty. The arrow, in fact, quivered determinedly, but she pressed onward, glaring past the windshield to where the house ought to be, but, of course, was not. Why couldn't anything ever be easy?

It didn't help that today had been the day from hell. Awoken at three thanks to a bizarre dream that couldn't possibly mean what she'd thought, she'd a difficult time falling asleep again. And, after lying awake for three hours, she shut her eyes to hear the alarm. Swearing profusely, she flung aside the covers, glowered at the radio, and began her day. She barely had time to dress and start breakfast before another catastrophe started. Some genius had wandered into the nursery, roused all the baby imaginary friends, and then darted off to create more mischief. While she'd love to pin Bloo as the culprit, she had no proof.

Because of this, she was late fixing Duchess's breakfast and, naturally, the spoiled, pampered, disfigured little cretin insulted her and the dish. She threw it off the table, kicked the remnants on the floor, demanded she clean her heels for touching 'that garbage' and promptly sulked until Frankie brought her another painstakingly cooked meal, which she proceeded to chuck in her face. Five attempts later, she finally deigned that she'd rather starve than eat her cooking and, personally, Frankie had no problem with _that_. She hoped the bratty friend starved (not that she told _her _that).

Slamming the door behind her, she came face to face with Foster's resident persnickety, no nonsense friend, Mr. Herriman himself. In the past few weeks, their relationship and its troubles mellowed, but seeing him after the recent fiasco strengthened her bad mood and day. He reminded her she was late preparing breakfast for the rest of the house, to which she replied something considerably ruder than she ought to have and what landed her with triple chore duty. She'd then threatened to cram his rules up where the sun didn't shine…and then remarked that there wouldn't be any room anyway because he was such a tight ass. Naturally, he didn't take to those comments and, as punishment, found herself stuck with Bloo all day. It wasn't that the imaginary blue blob was particularly annoying, but he was a handful. And, on top of her chores, he grated on her every last nerve.

The instant she threatened him, however, his creator strode in and overheard it. This led to her uttering a few choice statements about Bloo that _he _disliked, but Frankie really couldn't care less. Leaving both creator and creation in a foul mood, she stomped off to clean the toilets. This was, she reflected, not unexpected. After all, she dealt with a lot of other creature's crap. Now it had a more literal connotation.

Smelling distinctly and in a far worse mood than before, she decided to take a shower. Big mistake there. Undressing and turning on the shower head, she pivoted at a door knock. Wrapping a towel firmly around her body and ready to bite the head off anyone who dared interrupt her, she came face to face with Mr. Herriman. He blushed crimson and, much to her irritation, her face accrued new red hues. Recollections of the dream flashed through her mind and, for a split second, she almost asked him to join her. His furry face pressed against her neck while his paws caressed her bare back…

Staring at her clothes, particularly her bra, lying on the floor, he stammered out his request- grocery shopping. He apologized profusely, backing out and shutting the door hastily to allow her to redress. Shaking off her confusion and subconscious desires, she grumbled, applied perfume to mask her stench, and tromped off to retrieve cheese, bread, peanut butter and jelly, pasta, and various other 'necessities'. Bloo insisted on coming along, despite the nasty look she gave him, and, calling to Eduardo, Wilt, and Coco plus his creator, the four imaginary friends and eight year old boy crammed into the bus to further her ire and sincerely make her wish she hadn't awoken this morning at all. How easy it would have all been, if she'd let the dream run its course instead of waking to protest it.

The supermarket was no joy, either. Long lines (because today was Sunday and the sales started today), objects ringing up at improper prices, Bloo tossing things into the cart and her catching them at the last minute, keeping him from adding more to their bill by sampling things that weren't out to grab, and, of course, waiting in line for twenty minutes behind a group of people who deduced paying for fifty cents worth the groceries merited a credit card. A vein throbbed in her forehead when the cashier finished their order and, then she realized Mr. Herriman hadn't given her money out of Foster's funds. Therefore, ready to slit some throats, she paid for it out of her own pocket and directed Ed, Wilt, Mac, Bloo, and Coco to pull their weight and help her with the bags. Bloo tried to weasel his way out and dragged a paper bag across the parking lot only to have it split open. Wilt, thankfully, agreed to run in and grab another one, but her mood was so horrid, nothing would have lifted it, especially not Bloo's whispering to his creator or a few people staring at her entourage.

Fog cascaded upon the world abruptly and, while navigating her way through the myriad of streets, Mac and Bloo argued. And that brought her back to present day, wandering around unable to find Foster's and thoroughly irritated with the world. Sighing heavily, she finally, miraculously, located the driveway only for the fog to disappear. Perhaps a bout of good luck? Of course not. The fog lifted…and pouring rain took its place. Carrying the bags soaked her to the bone.

Wiping a drenched tendril off her forehead, she rested on a kitchen stool and, like clockwork, in hopped Mr. Herriman. She opened her mouth to snap at him when he handed her a pink, fluffy, warm towel. Pleasantly surprised (but suspicious, because since when did he do anything kind for her?), she dried herself off and glanced at him, sitting beside her and smiling apologetically. The bags, she discovered, were empty on the countertop- he must've stored the contents away while she contemplated her horrible, horrible day.

"Miss Frances, I feel I must apologize. I know I cannot fully account for your day, but part of it, at least, is my fault. I…" he trailed off, embarrassed. She smiled weakly, grateful he'd swallowed his pride and forgave her harsh words. His paw stroked her hand and a sudden rush of warmth flooded her. Turning her head, she discovered they were both blushing profusely and his paw tentatively rose to caress her face.

"It's okay," she murmured. "I shouldn't have said those things, either. I…"

_I love you_.

Persistent and determined, the three little words pushed against their mouths and sought release. Leaning in, their lips brushed…

Boom!

"What was _that_?" Frankie said, frowning and jumping off the stool. "That better not have been who I think it was…"

Sure enough, it was. Holding a bottle between two tongs, Bloo rushed past the two and dunked it in the nearby sink. Snatching a step ladder, he poured water on whatever it was and steam issued forth. The acrid smell of burning chemicals penetrated their nostrils and Frankie coughed, standing behind him to figure what exactly he'd done. Apparently, he'd set something on fire that wasn't supposed to see flames. Sheepishly, he pivoted and smiled innocently- she wasn't convinced. Most of the time, Bloo was physically incapable of innocence when it came to rule breaking and mysterious happenings.

"Aw, c'mon, Frankie, how was _I _supposed to know it'd do that? They really should label these things more carefully," he said, dropping the tongs. He'd accidentally turned the hot water on and, rolling her eyes, she changed it to cold.

"They _do_," she replied, pointing to a scorched label that read- 'highly flammable'. Bloo chuckled nervously.

"Gotta go!" he called, tumbling off the ladder and landing flat on his face. Behind her, Mr. Herriman snickered, hastily covering it up with a hacking cough that fooled no one. She raised an eyebrow, surprised at such a blatant display of dislike. He shot her an innocuous look and she fought a snicker of her own.

"You're not going _anywhere_," she said, scooping him up against his will and carting him off. The bottle, like what might have been between Frankie and Herriman, smoldered unnoticed in the sink.

…

Rain splattered the windows, but, cupping a warm mug of cocoa in her hands, Frankie was adverse to its effects. After scrubbing herself raw and finishing the rest of her accursed chores, she'd curled up on a couch in a less populated den. The clock's green numbers prominently displayed eleven, an hour after Mr. Herriman's staunchly enforced bedtime. She wafted the sweet aroma of marshmallows and melted chocolate towards her and sighed happily, at peace. While the rest of her day had been by no means easy, her conversation with him had served as brief interlude, an oasis in the middle of a tempest tossed desert. Had she seriously thought to say what sprang to mind, then? What might have happened had Bloo not run in there? She shivered pleasantly, shutting her eyes and imagining it.

They'd forgiven each other swifter than normal, hadn't they? Lately, their arguments fell apart at the seams and it was more like each other wanted a front, a protection lest their real feelings be exposed. Was he dreaming the same things as her? Could he be…?

Resting the mug and her eyes for a second, Frankie fell fast asleep.

…

Blankets wrapped firmly about her frame and a tender, whiskery kiss on her forehead. Mumbling sleepily, she rolled about, uncertain if the words she heard were in her mind or actually spoken.

"I love you."

…

Mr. Herriman opened the window and stuck his head out. Floppy ears waggled slightly thanks to the sudden motion. The cool night breeze carried no hint of rain or fog. Maybe tomorrow would be a better day.

…


	5. Heat Wave

Author's Note: It occured to me no one would notice if I posted a different one-shot in place of chapter four unless I posted a chapter five slot. Otherwise, they might write it off as a glitch. So, uh, here's "Heat Wave" (theme- 'beneath one's dignity'/infra dignitatem).

Not mine.

Heat Wave

Frankie Foster fanned her face distractedly, nodded at a disgruntled imaginary baby, and slumped dejectedly in her rocking chair. Sweat trickled down her brow; she'd give anything to turn on the AC. Today was the hottest day in recent history (the swimming pool had transformed into a sauna), yet the stingy, fuss budget Mr. Herriman refused to let them switch on the air conditioning and receive much needed relief. Personally, she couldn't understand his reasoning- he too suffered, particularly because he was covered in fur. Yet he believed that nothing could possibly come of denying the A.C. and set about to prove it by sitting in his broiling office with the windows shut.

"It's _your _funeral," Frankie had muttered, patience at an end. Despite her budding romantic feelings for him, right now she could care less if he melted into rabbit stew. Even creatures she normally got along well with, such as Wilt and Mac, she'd a hard time biding her tongue. The infernal damp clung to her clothing and its fellow companion, humidity, made moving through the house akin to wading through the kiddy pool. Naturally, all that might be avoided were her boss to succumb and cool the house. But he wouldn't.

Surrendering, since they fussed no mater what she tried, Frankie departed to accomplish one of the many remaining tasks on her list. By the time she finished, the sun had reached its zenith and its influence remained unrelenting.

* * *

"Miss Frances, air conditioning this house is costly and entirely unneeded. The friends of Foster's can find ways to cool themselves," Mr. Herriman informed her, scowling and fidgety. He fanned himself idly, and, then, reminding himself it was improper, halted abruptly. Sweat normally invisible thanks to his fur glistened and the imaginary rabbit swayed slightly, feeling rather nauseous and, well, warm. He ignored it, nonetheless. It was nothing.

"And when they end up in the hospital thanks to heat stroke, what will you say then?" she retorted, glowering. "Three quarters of the imaginary friends here are covered in fur. _You're _furry, for heaven's sake!"

Frowning, he winced at the way his stage gloves stuck to his paws and swallowed hard, lightheaded. Leaning heavily back in his chair, he willed away his maladies. Mind over matter, after all, ought to triumph. Ought to, but the more he thought about them, the stronger they seemed to become. Psychosomatic over putting it out of his mind.

"That is besides the point, Frankie," he replied, forgetting the formality. The world twirled threateningly, and realigned itself. He attempted to yank off his gloves, but his head spun worse than before. He understood it was hot outside, but when had it jumped _this _high?

"Mr. H, are you okay?" she blinked, forgetting their argument momentarily. "You called me 'Frankie'…and you look like you're going to faint."

"I am fine…I do not need air conditioning…Foster's should…should…"

Slumping over onto his desk, his head smacked impressively against the stack of files. Despite his insistence Foster's needed no cooling systems, he'd passed out thanks to heat stroke.

* * *

Fur, sweaty between her fingers, she stroked endlessly. Since his fainting, she'd called an ambulance and then insisted on riding in the back seat. Madame Foster glanced at the two but said nothing, privately scrutinizing her affection when she thought no one watched. For the past twenty minutes, she'd caressed his face (what she reached through the oxygen mask), ran her fingers over his ears, and scarcely breathed. The paramedic, too preoccupied with writing in his notebook, kept his head down. If he noticed Frankie's affectionate gestures, he refrained from mentioning it.

_Why am I doing this? _She thought, coursing her tips at the edge of his collar and leaning intently. Despite their argument, despite the heat at Foster's (thankfully, the ambulance was air conditioned), she couldn't keep her hands off him. Was it because conscious, he'd never let her roam this freely? Was it because something about him made her heart race?

"I told you to turn on the A.C., you crazy rabbit," she whispered, resting her hand on his mini vest and feeling his heart beat steadily beneath. She shut her eyes, letting the rhythm consume her. A minute passed and a wooden cane prodded her in the arm.

"Checking to see if he's alive?" Madame Foster said and Frankie, startled, opened her eyes abruptly. Blood rushed to her face and, like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar, she jerked it away. Mr. Herriman twitched his whiskers, subconsciously shifting to get close to her hand again. Despite being unconscious, he divined her touch from his creator's.

"How…how long were you watching me, Grandma?" she muttered sheepishly. Nonetheless, she yearned to be closer and an image rose that she quickly discarded, of lying beside him and wrapping her arms around his midsection. Afraid she inexplicably possessed mind reading capabilities, she stared fixedly at the ambulance's sides. Her hand unconsciously drifted towards his velvety ears.

Smiling cryptically, she replied, "Oh, I wasn't watching you, dearie. You know old women like me often drift in and out of attentiveness."

Swallowing hard, uncertain she truly hadn't seen her or was pulling a fast one to speak more about this later, she kept mum. Meanwhile, the ambulance trudged through the thick traffic and Mr. Herriman breathed calmly, helped by the oxygen. They ran over a large bump and she grabbed his paw and squeezed it tightly. It must have been her imagination, because she thought he squeezed back. But he was unconscious, wasn't he?

"La, la, la," Madame Foster sang, winking at her creation. "It's just a nice summer day…"

And, under the guise of senility, she pretended not to spot her granddaughter's hand tightly wound about her creation's.

* * *

Kicking the vending machine spitefully, she glared at the candy bar, stuck behind its metal confines. If she rattled it, it might come loose, but then again, it also might topple over. While this might be the best place to be if an accident happened, she'd rather not have it due to her stupidity. One creature in the hospital thanks to that was enough. Nonetheless, her stomach growled, ignoring all logic. It wanted sustenance and chocolate resembled food.

"So, how long have you been in love with Mr. Herriman?" Madame Foster inquired demurely, like asking whether it rained yesterday. Frankie pivoted, stunned at the innocent look on her grandmother's face and the question. Humming to herself, she continued knitting like nothing had ever happened. Her needles clacked in the silence.

"_What_?" Frankie exclaimed, frightening a nearby couple and their infant, who shrieked. Grabbing the stroller, they quickly left the mad girl behind. Throughout the corridor rang the baby's discomfort (actually caused by a dirty diaper). Needles weaved in the fabric nonchalantly.

"I'm…I'm not in love with Herriman!" she said, blushing heavily. Why now, of all times, should she turn crimson? Giving the machine one last indulgent kick, she settled into a cushiony sofa like structure apart from her grandmother. Snakes coiled and uncoiled in the pit of her stomach. Her conscious mind refused to accept it, but her subconscious already asserted it as fact. She wasn't in love in with him. It was ridiculous to think she was.

After all, he was a large, imaginary rabbit. Shouldn't that factor in? Yet the words her grandmother told her growing up mentally smacked her. "Love transcends all boundaries- age, sex, human/imaginary, race, and religion. As long as it's pure and innocent, love can overcome anything. Never be afraid of love. When the time comes, you'll know."

"Has the time come?" Madame Foster pressed, sensing her train of thought. "Sometimes others can see what's blind to another."

Sighing heavily, Frankie twisted her hands and stared at the floor. Love was blind. Love consumed everything until it was the only thing. Hadn't she thought about him more often than was normal but dismissed it? Hadn't she experienced bizarre dreams and inexplicable fancies? Hadn't she drifted off occasionally, imagining them together and then busying herself to rid herself of the idea?

"Grandma…" she whispered, jumping when her hand landed on her shoulder. The older woman smiled sweetly, understanding her uncertainty. Yet these were two creatures Madame Foster cared about more than life itself and she'd long come to the conclusion if they had to unite as a couple to be happy, then they had her blessings. How could she deprive them of their joy? Thus she pushed, hoping they'd eventually unify and comprehend.

"He's not going anywhere. Trust me," she murmured. "Tell him."

"But…" Frankie protested, cringing when Madame Foster prodded her with her cane for the second time today. That cane could be a formidable weapon if she so chose. It hurt more than it looked, too. Still, she wasn't certain she ought to tell him just yet. What if her feelings weren't for real? What if he didn't feel the same? What if, worse yet, he already had someone else? Mr. Herriman never told anyone anything personal; it was possible. Doubts and dissensions flooded her mind.

Rising uncertainly, she set off, but not to his room. Not now.

* * *

After an hour of questioning herself, questioning the past and present, and dissecting all their interactions, she accidentally wound up wandering past his room. Poking her head in, she saw his chest rise and fall smoothly, fast asleep. She wasn't ready to divulge herself awake, but getting this out in the open would make her feel better. Scanning the perimeter, she drew the curtain around them and sat in the chair beside his bed. Her fingers unconsciously stroked his arm.

"I…I know you can't hear me right now, but that's okay 'cuz I kind of don't want you to. I have to say this, though…Grandma's good at prying things out of people.

"I don't know how it happened or when it started, but…oh, this is ridiculous."

Mr. Herriman turned over, whiskers twitching again, and, smiling serenely, nuzzled her hand. The color raced to her cheeks, but before she jerked it away, he kissed it. Her heart pounded in her chest, her palms were dry, but her hand acted of its own accord. It caressed his face, tenderly running over his features. Her body, it seemed, was speaking for her.

"What's ridiculous, Miss Frances?" he replied, rolling closer and kissing her arm. Impulsively, she lowered herself and pecked him on the lips. Blushing uncontrollably, she started to pull back but his paw on the back of her head stopped her. Her heart thundered in her ears.

"That..." She knew he shouldn't have been expecting this, but everything had happened so fast, she was confused. She didn't want it to stop, yet she had to figure it out. Unable to control himself either, he brushed his lips against hers. The rest of her quandary temporarily vanished, powerless in the wake of his kiss. She kissed him back intensely, gratefully sinking in the joy that consumed her. His paw roamed through her hair, undoing the ponytail and letting it fall free onto her shoulders.

Tapping her lips teasingly, his tongue ran across them and she opened them immediately, placing a possessive hand on the back of his head. Their tongues batted each other playfully and his paws tumbled in her fiery red locks, occasionally brushing her neck to induce pleasant shivers. Occasionally, his paws tentatively stroked her face and darted to her waist; he could hardly believe his luck. All those months of longing…and her hands perused his face, down his shoulders, and rested on his chest.

Neither of them heard anyone approach, nor saw their shadow. They were, needless to say, a little busy elsewhere. A sharp rap on the back of their heads stopped them and, wincing, they turned (Frankie nearly toppled off her chair in shock). Madame Foster smirked, examining their scarlet faces.

"And I would have gotten away with it, too, if it weren't for that crazy old coot, her cane, and the _open door_," Madame Foster said, chuckling. "While I'm very pleased you two have finally gotten on with it and advanced the plot, I'm not sure you wanted to give people a free show."

A number of creatures had congregated, including, Frankie recognized, horrified, Mac, Bloo, Eduardo, Wilt, and Coco. The blobby blue imaginary friend had fainted dead away in his creator's arms, muttering about "the end of the world". Mac's brown eyes were wide, staring at Frankie and Herriman like he'd never seen them before. Wilt and Eduardo's mouth's gaped; both looked like they'd received the shock of their lives. Coco cocked her head, expression indeterminate.

"I can explain!" Frankie blurted, bereft of anything vaguely resembling an explanation. "We were, we were…"

"I was choking and you see, Miss Frances was administering mouth to mouth," Mr. Herriman finished, face glowing like the setting sun. Despite the fur, his face glowed radiantly. Madame Foster snickered, completely unconvinced. Herriman wasn't a good liar and no one would buy that excuse, not in a million years.

Dully, Mac replied, "That's for people who are _drowning_. You administer the Heimlich for people who are choking. That doesn't involve mouth to mouth at all."

Frankie blurted, "Yes, Heimlich. We'll, uh, keep that in mouth, I mean, mind! I mean…oops."

Mr. Herriman rolled his eyes, mentally noting that unless his mouth covered hers, perhaps she shouldn't speak. After all, she wasn't exactly doing such a great job right now. He brushed his paw against her hand and wished he had a clearer way to say "be quiet".

Madame Foster raised an apprising eyebrow, but winked at the two guilty parties.

"I think now we ought to let Mr. Herriman get some _actual _rest," she said, emphasizing 'actual' strongly to communicate to Frankie it was time to withdraw. Face still glowing, she retreated into the hallway, where neither of them looked at her. They scoffed their feet and or sneakers on the floor or, in Bloo's case, mumbled 'end of the world…end of the world…".

The group left the large, amused imaginary rabbit alone, where instead of sleeping, he vividly imagined their kiss repeatedly.

* * *

Two days later, fanning herself again, Frankie turned to her grandmother, smiling serenely in the face of the continuing heat wave. Though Mr. Herriman had, after a barrage of complaints, reticently switched on the AC, it had yet to circulate fully. The two Foster's women sat in the den, completely deserted in favor of the pool. However, Frankie had business with her grandmother. The questions burning in her mind lately yearned to be expressed. She had to know the whole story.

"How…?" Frankie murmured, sipping her iced tea and suppressing a smile. It was nice ordering Bloo around instead of vice versa.

"How what, dearie?" Madame Foster replied calmly, sipping her own and pulling a face. Bloo hadn't put enough sugar in hers. Then again, Mac _had _dutifully instructed his imaginary friend the second time and not the first. Absently, the elderly woman retrieved a sugar packet and proceeded to dump the whole inside her glass. She swirled it with her straw.

"How did I know you two had a thing for each other? You don't get to be my age without learning a thing or two about love," she answered cryptically, smiling ruefully. Swallowing the rest in one gulp, she left Frankie to her thoughts.

* * *

The blistering heat wave continued for another week, but Mr. Herriman decided that despite the electricity bill, perhaps it was better to run the AC. If he was going to fall into Frankie's arms, he'd rather be conscious for it.

* * *


	6. 3 Themes Two Drabbles

Author's Note: I haven't been much for 30Kisses lately, sorry. Then I wrote four drabbles yesterday, finished this off today...and voila.

Foster's isn't mine.

Bendy Returns ("Framed")

Frankie faced the same infernal wall she'd regarded two hours ago. Bereft of a proper "punishment", Mr. Herriman had sentenced her to stare at the wall until she understood why its uniformity must become her. If those infernal emotional surges hadn't eddied that very moment, she might have intimated he'd sniffed a powder that wasn't sugar. As it was, she stared at his office wall and listened to him scratch his feather quill on an adoption form. His brown eyes bored holes into the back of her head.

"Mr. H?" she inquired and he murmured 'hmm' to indicate he was paying attention. Although her pseudo sentence included silence, he hadn't scolded her. Smiling minutely, she whirled the chair around and met his gaze.

Beneath his grey white fur, he blushed. He ought to reprimand her and personally ease her chair into its proper position. He ought to commandeer her as he ordered himself. But whenever he looked at her, he melted inside, more often lately. He reminded himself mentally she was a member of the household and therefore, should receive no special treatment, but his affections towards her defied control. The paw holding his quill he reluctantly loosened lest ink splatter all over the place.

"Frankie?" he replied, a half second later realizing he'd accidentally used her nickname. He blushed deeper and she smiled wider, transforming his embarrassment into a heat visible beyond his fur. Wishing he had a water bucket to dunk his head, he was surprised to discover that he wasn't alone. Although Frankie was still smiling at him, the grin was sheepish and her face matched her hair.

Rising, he hopped to the window and heaved the window open. A pleasant breeze filtered throughout the room, but it didn't alleviate the tremendous temperature increase. Moments passed before either felt quite up to speaking again and Frankie had to dunk her head outside. Unfortunately, since Mr. H was already standing there, their faces came awfully close. In fact, if he'd inclined his head a fraction of an inch, their lips would have met.

"Miss Frances?" he offered feebly after she'd fanned herself to no avail. "What is it you wished to ask me?"

She blinked, completely at a loss. What _was _it she wanted to ask? There'd been that instant when their lips nearly brushed together, her palms sweated, her heart hammered, and the heat in her face. That instant had wiped her mind clean and whatever she'd contrived beforehand had vanished. Had he wanted to incline his head? Was he even aware of their proximity? Why was he blushing in the first place? Did he have those weird affectionate bursts too? What on earth was wrong with them?

"I…have no idea."

"Oh. I see."

Awkward silence. Overheard, Bloo smashed something, but neither flinched. Wilt stammered an apology and near them, imaginary friends cheered. It sounded suspicious and they required anything to dissolve the bizarre mood. Despite the fact Frankie was still technically 'serving time', they rose simultaneously and darted to investigate. His paw brushed her hand at the door and they took two separate routes to avoid the thoughts circling madly.

* * *

Bloo loathed Bendy. In fact, loathing could not begin to describe just what he wanted to have done to him or the depth of his feelings. After a three-month absence where one hoped he might have received training in how not to frame imaginaries and humans, he'd returned to cause more mayhem than any of them deemed possible. Instead of throwing himself at the mercy of both Frankie and Herriman, he was trying to pit them against each other. Not altogether a stupid strategy and therein lay the problem- not only was Bendy intelligent, he was probably smarter than most of the friends here combined. Certainly clever enough to evade capture by the authority figures to whom he whined. 

Wilt refused to call him a "bad idea", but Bloo had no problems with it. For whatever reason Gregory deemed necessary, he'd imagined a friend to commit every act he could and then blame it on Bendy. Lamentably, Bendy had learned from his creator the very same tactic and employed it endlessly, reveling in their torture while he skipped away scotch free. Or, in the case of Bloo, in much more trouble than Bendy could have been by upping the ante too far.

A shattered priceless vase laid in pieces at his 'feet', but he'd only arrived a minute ago. Bendy knew Mac showed up at three o'clock and if Bloo wasn't hovering expectantly by the door, he'd be dashing to meet him. Therefore, he'd planned accordingly. Bloo seethed, glancing at Bendy's fawning fans and flipping them off by sticking up his stub in what he hoped was a derogative gesture. How on earth the sneaky devil won fans he couldn't figure out, but they admired his work and, Bloo suspected, his dislike for Bloo. It had been Bloo who extracted him in the first place and since his return, he'd done everything in his power to make the poor imaginary blob's life miserable. He'd succeeded, too- thrice this week Bloo had been denied time to see his best friend. It drove him insane.

Telltale hops warned Bloo of his impending doom and he glared hatefully at Bendy. Snickering, he drummed his razor like fingers together and gloated. That was, until Frankie bowled him over and he slammed into the floor. Then it was Bloo's time to gloat…until Mr. Herriman arrived at the opposite end of the corridor. Grand, sandwiched between two authority figures and framed to boot. Could things get worse?

"Master Blooregard!" Mr. Herriman said sternly, waggling a 'finger' at him. "I believe I told you if you were to commit another act, you would not be able to see Master Mac for a week."

"It wasn't me!" he protested and Frankie lifted the struggling Bendy by his arm. He whined, shooting to Mr. Herriman, but she held firm about his middle. Mr. Herriman blinked, surprised by her antics. Bloo's, of course, he anticipated.

"He's telling the truth," she asserted and, hissing, he raked her arm. Cackling madly, he tore off down the stairwell and into a random part of the house. Bloo cried 'ha!' and demanded Herriman investigate further, but he was too preoccupied with Frankie's arm, which now sported three long, wavering gashes.

* * *

"Do you trust me?" Frankie murmured, wincing as Herriman applied sterilization fluids to the wound. She'd tried to tend to herself, but he insisted. The color briefly rose in her cheeks again, but she concentrated on his tender touch and the softness of his paw on her arm. He paused, glancing up and examining her closely.

"I beg your pardon?" he inquired politely, tearing his eyes away to gently wrap her arm protectively. His paws lingered but she grasped them ere he pulled back. Wishing her confidence extended further, she swallowed hard and squeezed.

"That was what I was going to ask you. Do you trust me?"

Rather than immediately responding, he deliberated, storing the materials. He hopped to her side and then to the window. Silence descended, heavy and practically palpable. She scowled, wondering what on earth was so difficult to answer. Overhead, curses flew like fine wine, but they ignored them. She'd catch and contend with Bendy later (and, oh, would _that _be a massacre). In the meanwhile, her heartbeat tripled; he had to be saving up to say something tremendous. After all, why would he wait so long?

"I trust you…" he began warily and laid a paw on her shoulder. "I trust you as a friend…"

Inexplicably, those words deflated her and she rose wearily, oddly drained. Her wound throbbed, but her heart more so. If he trusted her as a friend, he wanted nothing else. The emotions swirling around her, the ones that whispered promise and hope, dropped into an abyss. Yet there seemed to be words hiding behind the cloth, words he longed to express but couldn't. Hand trembling, she lifted it to his cheek and held it there. Her heart threatened to drum itself out of her chest.

"What about…as a lover?" she whispered, barely audible and lightly brushed her lips against his. His paw rose to remove her hand from his face; he placed her arms around his neck and wrapped his around her waist. He gazed at her urgently and narrowed the distance between their lips. The instant they brushed again, there was a squeak, and a thud. It seemed they'd found Bendy's hiding place.

Frankie opened a cabinet to find Bendy practically groveling. He wrapped his arms around her legs and whined plaintively. She blinked, taken aback, and stared at Mr. Herriman. He looked as clueless as she felt.

"Enough! I confess to everything! Just don't ever do _that_ again!" he moaned.

Frankie suppressed a snicker. Despite her inner fury at his interruption, she had to admit this rather befitted him. If he persisted in pestering imaginary friends and ruining their happiness, he ought to receive the same. Lamentably, it had come at the risk of exposure to a situation she hadn't understood existed until recently. However, she might be able to buy his silence. Unfortunately, therein laid a problem- Bendy could blackmail them. Hopefully, that wouldn't happen. Hopefully he'd learn his lesson simply by lingering in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Regaining his composure like it never evaded him, Mr. Herriman stiffened and hoisted Bendy up by his scrawny arm. He opened his mouth to apprehend him when Bloo tore into the room. Eyes dancing maniacally, he held a picture and waved it frantically. This was starting to get a little out of hand.

"Bendy did it! I can prove it!" he cried.

"_Without _flooding the house?" Frankie muttered sarcastically. It'd taken them ages to amend the damage he'd caused by proving he'd stolen a cookie. It fit Mr. Herriman's retort- "if they were harebrained (schemes), they'd be clever". Bloo never fully thought through his plans. She hoped she wouldn't walk into the lobby and find the imaginary friends submersed. Oh, that was a nightmare.

"Yes, yes, yes!" he said impatiently.

"I turn myself in! Let me go back to Faust's Home for Delinquent Friends!" Bendy protested. "No more!"

"I won!" Bloo whooped and Frankie rolled her eyes. No, actually, her budding romance with Mr. Herriman had saved the day, but she'd let him have this one. She didn't really want to take the time to explain it to someone who probably couldn't keep his mouth shut to save his life.

"To Faust's it is," Mr. Herriman said, smiling.

* * *

A couple weeks later, Frankie stared at the sunset and ran her fingers over her mending wound. The telltale hops informed her she had company and, smiling, she turned in his direction. He smiled back, wrapping an arm possessively around her waist when they ascertained no one spied them. She leaned against him and relished simply the feel of him.

"How is it healing?" he inquired, running his paw over it.

"Getting there. Think we ought to 'punish' unruly friends by forcing them to watch us making out?" she teased and he blanched. Chuckling at his reaction, she pecked him on the cheek affectionately.

"Kidding, kidding."

"I certainly hope so, Miss Frances. We are not-"

"One of these days, I'm going to teach you the gift of recognizing a joke," she quipped, grinning ruefully.

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she kissed him passionately, all the while mentally snickering at Bendy's confession. All's well that ends well.

* * *

"Shriek; shout"

He hated when they shouted. Passing imaginary friends, completely cognizant of the rules yet disregarding them nonetheless, screamed nonsensically to each other in the halls. Yet the instant he opened his mouth to protest, she shut it for him. Smiling mysteriously, she outwardly scolded him about the insurmountable list of chores and inwardly shoved him into his office. A second or two would pass, and then, like magnets drawn together, their lips would meet and not separate. She'd back him into the desk and there they'd stay, making out and unaware of the world at large, only noticing their linked lips. The world had shrunk to the two of them.

In retrospect, when he thought about it, perhaps screams weren't that bad.

* * *

"Try over there..."

Love has a funny way of sneaking up on someone and whacking them smack in the back of the head. They clutch it, moan they're going to get a concussion, all the while their thoughts are obsessive, the reactions of a madman. They eat, sleep, and drink the other. No matter where they turn, they see them. No matter what they do, their words, their actions, their very being infiltrates them. Two have become one.

Never is this more evident with a couple such as Frankie and Herriman. A human and an imaginary rabbit, yet their actions are in harmony. They give themselves to each other wholly, mindful nonetheless of their surroundings and the secrecy of their relationship. Their personalities balance each other out as well. Despite minute flaws, they metamorphose into something perfectly imperfect. A combination of thoughtfulness and physicality.

Of course, they know such a pairing could hardly be considered 'normal' by any standards. They care not. Wrapped in their own bundle of happiness, they ignore any naysayers and, at night, cuddle in one another's arms. Human and human couples have been far less contented.

Nonetheless, if you're looking for the picture perfect romance, "try over there…"


	7. More Drabbles

Author's Note: I beg your pardon for waiting a month to update. My Jimmy Neutron obsession helped that, as well as Kingdom Hearts 2. At any rate, this chapter is a series of drabbles of varying length. The first one occurs during "Setting a President" and the third after "The Big Picture". My personal favorite is the fourth, since it varies from my usual writing style and flows differently. At any rate, enjoy! Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends belongs to the great and benevolent Craig McCracken.

"Uproar, chaos"

Frankie Foster drummed her fingers on the tabletop, glanced out the window, and sighed heavily. Today marked two weeks since her accruing Mr. Herriman's job and, rather than the superficial satisfaction in surpassing his leadership, she felt hollow and drained. Scowling, she shifted her restless fingers to the stack of paperwork, but they coursed through her hair instead. They disobeyed her habitually, prompting her to search information and find out where he'd gone off to after leaving Foster's. Why should she care? Shortly before losing, he'd tried to ruin her reputation just to hold onto his job. Foster's was through with him and so was she.

Yet, as a certain Jedi Master might say, there were 'disturbances in the Force'. Things that ought to bring her great happiness barely impacted her. Sure Foster's ran well under her tutelage, but then there were the insidious cracks seeping. Her grandmother, usually chipper and attending every single meal, rarely appeared any more. Whispers of imaginary friend prejudice entered her ears when she shopped and she'd pivot, expecting to see him and only spotting a shadow. Her heart would soar expectantly and then plummet to her stomach.

_But I don't care_, she asserted, scoffing outwardly. _Why should I? Why should the thought of seeing him, bringing him back here, make me happy? He's been nothing but a despotic dictator and I'm glad to be rid of him. _

"Right?" she whispered to no one in particular. And no one in particular answered.

* * *

"Solipsist" 

"There is only us…there is only now. No day but today." Only, there is no us. There's now, certainly, but the now does not involve an 'us'. He knows it, he's acknowledged it time after time, but the fact grows more poignant with time, not less. There is only him and his world. He reaches out to touch hers, but it all returns to him. There is only him.

* * *

Bronze Medal' 

Frankie folded her arms across her chest and glared at this year's house photo, which, once again, featured only her and her grandmother. Mr. Herriman scoffed, his paw brushing the hand holding the picture. He had promised to punish Bloo for ruining the shot, but she noticed an indiscernible emotion flickering in his luminescent black eyes. Standing in the basement, he reluctantly extracted the failure and stuck in the book next to the others.

"All that preparation, the classification, and all for naught," he sighed heavily and she wrapped an arm around his shoulders. He blinked, startled, and that odd look returned.

"Miss Frances, there are no pictures of _us_ alone in those books," he commenced shyly and her heart skipped a beat. Hastily, she extracted her arm from his shoulders, but he clutched her hand in his paw. Her knees weakened, yet she had no idea why he induced such reactions. Weren't they talking about a picture? How did her body react like this around him, of all creatures?

"I…I know," she answered, voice sounding like it belonged to someone else. His left paw, currently free, cautiously eased a stray red hair strand behind her ear and, in addition to her heart skipping another beat, she temporarily forgot to breath. Truthfully, these reactions had occurred more and more often of late, particularly when they were in a situation when it was unlikely anyone would intercede.

"Would you like there to be?" he whispered and she heard all the implications, the implicit meanings of 'us'. Reddening, she disentangled herself from him, replaced the tome on the shelf, and swayed on her feet. Hopping deftly, he caught her and the heat intensified. An awkward silence filled the room.

"I…" she trailed off. "I would like you to…"

"To what?" he replied, whispering too. Her heart rate tripled and her knees threatened to crumple beneath her. Protectively, possessively, he tightened his grip. In that moment, she realized the next few words out of her mouth were pivotal. They could create a completely different destiny than her arranged course or align themselves to a preordained fate. Its weight impressed upon her.

_Kiss me. _

"Funny Bunny, are you finished with that picture yet? You complain when I'm not a regimented schedule, yet you and Frankie dilly-dally. Honestly," she reprimanded, tapping her cane on the first step. The sound jolted the two would be lovers and they jumped, Frankie springing out of Herriman's arms. Glancing at each other guiltily, she pawed the floor and, desperate to flee the scene, dashed up the stairs. Herriman, in a dignified hop, joined her momentarily.

"Sometimes I wonder about you two," she murmured cryptically, shaking her head ruefully. "Get on with it already."

Frankie and Herriman exchanged a puzzled look.

"Next year, you two had better not ruin the picture," she finished, smirking.

"I beg your pardon?" Mr. Herriman stated, bewildered.

"No making out on my watch!" Madame Foster chastised, waggling a finger admonishingly. Laughing at their thunderstruck expressions, she hobbled innocently to the living room and left them to consider her words.

**

* * *

**

**"Argentine"**

Not friend, not foe, nor lover, no. Confused arguments, a bittersweet aftertaste. Mistaken touches, blushes, and haunting dream of what might be. Suppressed feelings, unexplained actions, and the lingering desire for more. A paw across her arm strokes it gently, but, no. Nothing is wrong and nothing is right.

Self loathing, unsatisfying conversations. Isn't something missing? Fleeting glances, whiskery soft kisses in sleep, the hint of more. Are humans selfish for wanting what they can't have? If so, then what are imaginary friends but a reflection of that selfishness? How can something so earnestly desired be considered wrong by any standard? Who are _they _to judge?

Is that what it comes down to? Judgment? Sure, he deems impressions important, but what's more important? Happiness or sorrow? 'Perfection' or her lips brushing across his cheek? Appearances or love? How can one be weighed over the other? Why should one be forsaken for the other?

A child no longer, but a woman capable of making decisions and forming relationships. He knows this, but he finds himself inexplicably shy. 'Who could ever love a Beast?' Unlike that fictional character, he will not change into a prince by her love. He will remain himself and is that enough? Can he win her over simply by being him? Is that asking for the moon?

She certainly is no Disney Princess. Unless he constitutes as the ugly Stepmother in her Cinderella tale and he has made a grave error. In that case, he ought to flee this particular tale before she leaves him. in silvery glass slippers her fairy godmother gives her after finding _him_. Her and her Prince Charming shall leave in the pumpkin couch, her shoe in his hand, because don't they all have Prince Charmings? Don't they all have something better than home? Home is simply where the story begins.

How can he protect himself from hurt when all he wants, all he's ever wanted, is a smile from her? It burns warm in his chest, like a moth attracted to its lethal mate, the flame. Yet she hardly ever smiles at him. Is it because she's afraid or because she would never consider such an option? Are all the incidents mere conjectures in his mind? Does the imaginary friend possess a great imagination than the humans surrounding him?

"Frankie…" he whimpers, gazing at her afar. She's spending her time tending to _his _chores and a pang of guilt strikes him. Of course, being the caretaker is her job, but maybe he ought to give her a day off just once. Would it be so terribly suspicious and out of character for him to wish her relaxation and (_oh, but the way her red bangs fall over her sparkling emerald eyes…) _

_I love you. _

She senses his eyes and halts, blushing (_a figment? hallucination? trick of the light?)_. No one watches them; the lobby is blissfully empty this morning. Far too early for any interlopers and his heart beats wildly in his chest. So close, yet so far. Untouchable (_only to you…) _

_Will you be mine? _

"Yes, Mr. H?" she answers like she has a million times before. (_Longing? Desire? A mixture of the two? Or nothing at all?)_

He loses his nerve. Shaking his head sadly, he hops towards his office, but rushing footfalls stop him. Her warm arms embrace him and, in the early sunlight, create warmth unheard of before. He wants her, all of her. Body, mind, and soul. A terrific ache supercedes the warmth and he yearns to turn and kiss her soundly, pressing her body against his. (_Mine_.)

Perhaps she realizes there is no reason for such an act, because she pulls away hastily, but he catches her arm. A look passes between them (_understanding? acceptance?_). Gently, like she is a porcelain figure prone to breaking, he hugs her tightly to him (_adrift in a sea of emotions…hold my hand, Frankie…)_. A smile breaks across her face and she rests her head on his shoulder. In his arms, he feels her heart race like his and smiles, stroking her hair with his right paw. As soft as he'd imagined it.

"Frankie…" he murmurs, clasping her soundly. (_Are you my imaginary friend? I've dreamt about you so much, I feel like I've dreamed you into life._)

"You called me by my nickname," she replies, smiling radiantly. (_Radiant Garden. A beauty within. Oh, to belong to you and you to me. Is possession everything? Frankie…) _

Daring himself, dangerously aware of what will happen if he fails, he brushes his lips against hers. There's a moment of shock (_rejection? Please don't tell me rejection…)_, but she remains in his arms. He grips her wrist and his mouth falls agape at her racing heart. Something changes then, but something that has always been, yet has never been realized. She feels it too. There is no escape; past the point of no return.

A devilish gleam enters her beautiful eyes and it is his return to be shocked. Jabbing her tongue into his mouth, she wraps her arms around his neck and cradles what is precious to her. Stunned but pleasantly surprised (_how long has she hidden this?_), he kisses her back passionately. His arms wrap around her waist and her delicate body brushes against his. She is his.

It lasts forever and yet, takes no time at all. Grinning, she breaks the kiss and opens her mouth to say something, yet thinks better of it. (_What now?_) Instead, her fingers grace his cheek and she pulls him closer, yet simultaneously pushes him away. (_What?)_

She pushes him into his office, where they end up on his desk. Papers fly, but he finds he cannot object. In fact, he cannot open his mouth to complain, because hers covers it completely. Her arms are still around him and she ends up on top; they take breaks to breathe, but nothing more.

"I love you," she says finally, burrowing her face into his furry chest. (_And she means it_)

* * *


	8. The End

Author's Note: This is the last 30Kisses chapter. As of yesterday, I finished my remaining challenges and am done writing F/H except in "Even in Death" (I'm contemplating deleting "Mind Games", too). I don't hate F/H...I've just moved on in terms of fic writing and obsessions.

You might find it amusing that I almost missed the new Foster's because I was busy putting these drabbles together. Lol.

Foster's ain't mine.

* * *

**Ramshackle**

Ramshackle. Derelict. Not broken, but deficient. Insufficient to satisfy her. Yet he strives anyway because while he might be the house on the end of the block visitors avert their eyes to miss, he holds an inner beauty like she possesses stalwart truth and compassion. He reaches for her hand and she does not turn away. Instead, she raises his paw to her lips and kisses it.

Others might see a weeded garden, but she sees the single rose growing in the thorns.

* * *

**"The Various Blood Types…"**

Type O negative, the universal donor. Type AB, the universal recipient. The Japanese believe that certain blood types impact personality and in anime, artists often give their characters' blood types as well as their horoscope and birth date. In America, while blood type might not be read _that _literally, it's important as far as donations and receiving blood during a crisis. Ironically, however, imaginary friends can neither donate nor receive blood. Since their internal composition may not include much beyond the essentials (creators can leave this up to nature or explain it in great detail), a situation where blood must be from another source can prove fatal.

In a crisis, Frankie knows beyond standing there and holding his paw, she won't be able to give any part of her body to save Mr. Herriman. Normally, that doesn't concern her, but whenever she sees an ambulance rush past and him speaking to a particularly dangerous friend…well, accidents happen.

It's another one of those- 'if only he were human' deals. Love is never perfect. She accepts it, but she can't help but worry. Nothing lasts forever.

* * *

**Naprapathy**

Mr. Herriman was 'never one' for holistic medicine. Of course, he was 'never one' for a great many things, but he drew the line at practices science condemned as inept. Therefore, when news reached him Madame Foster's grandniece intended to heal her cancer simply by wishing it away, he scoffed, inwardly pitying her. Belief did little to foster any actual healing, despite what others accepted. However, it was precisely this attitude that led to an interesting conversation between Frankie Foster and Mr. Herriman on a balmy, starry night in late June. The moon shone transcendently in the cloudless sky and Frankie exhaled happily, leaning back in his arms.

Other couples had opted to relish the mild late spring night by relaxing together. Bloo and Mac (now thirteen and sixteen respectively) nuzzled each other affectionately and she swore they stole a kiss. Bloo's stubby arm coursed through Mac's hair and, in response, his creator cradled him closer. The two had spent the first month of their relationship in relative secrecy, but she supposed either something had significantly altered, or they stopped caring who knew. Besides, this was Foster's. No one would castigate them for their choices.

Concealed in the semi darkness, Wilt and Eduardo enjoyed each other's company as well. It was amazing how many pairings you'd find in one house if you simply took the time to _look_. The half touches, the double entendres, the mysterious winks; she understood because she lived in that same world. Clandestine romance was its own dance, leading and following, snaking in and out. Frankie wouldn't trade it for the world, though.

Yet she had to admit that Herriman's attitude baffled her. Squeezing his paw in her hand, she shut her eyes and listened to his heartbeat. He kissed her cheek and she felt complete. There was no other world for this full sensation. Nagging in the back of her mind, however, arrived that question she had not spoken.

"You only believe in the tangible?" she said quizzically, cocking an eyebrow. Tonight, they expected a meteor show, another excuse to lure the couples out of hiding. The more outward ones huddled further out, fully illuminated. Mac and Bloo, she and Herriman, and Wilt and Eduardo, in contrast, were barely visible. Speaking of which, that little blue blob seemed to be stealing a lot of kisses from his creator. Not that Mac minded, but it brought a half smile to her face.

"Yes, I do. The tangible can be expressed mathematically, poked and prodded, and examined at length," he stated eloquently, his furry arm hugging her tighter. They had precious few moments like this and he relished every moment. He wanted to cradle her to him forever and she empathized because she shared that sentiment.

"Then how do you explain love?" she replied, swiveling around to kiss him passionately on the lips. She drew back, preparing to continue her thought, but his paw on the back of her neck implored her to forget their conversation momentarily. Smiling, she wrapped her arms around his neck and permitted him to deepen their contact. Their tongues battled playfully and she sighed, contented.

"Mr. H," she said when they broke apart, "how do you explain _that _if you only believe in the tangible?"

"A chemical attraction-"

"That's _lust_," she corrected. "Love does alter the brain's chemistry, but why with a certain person or creature? And you can't touch love. You can't 'poke' or 'prod' it. You're saying you don't believe in love."

"Miss Frances," he replied, affronted, "if I disbelieved in love, why would I be openly embracing and kissing you?"

"According to your credence, you don't believe in love. And you yourself are a corporeal manifestation of an intangible concept- the human imagination. You can't deny that," she said, folding her arms across her chest.

"Yes, but the imagination itself is obviously tangible, if I am a manifestation of it," he replied. "Certain aspects can be inspected in the form of imaginary friends."

"But those aspects are based off their children's wishes and desires," she pointed out. "Those are metaphysical."

"Yet when the imaginary friend is 'born' into this world, they assimilate into a physical form. Therefore, while they may not have been tangible beforehand, they are now."

"Yet you said essentially that the intangible doesn't exist. If it doesn't exist, how can an imaginary friend? How can love?" she argued.

Sighing heavily, he realized he had to concede at least partial credit to her debate. Nuzzling her cheek, he rocked her back and forth. Though they argued their points ardently, they both sat, relaxed and satiated. Mac and Bloo could never do that- though she rather doubted they were doing much talking at all. Unless you counted when their mouths encompassed each other's.

_Maybe if I get a satisfactory answer out of Cottontail, we'll join them_, she thought, grinning. He brushed back a few hair strands off her forehead and stroked her cheek. The stars overhead dazzled the few creatures watching and the moon was a beacon of hope to anyone caring to glance its way.

"Everything intangible has its roots in a physical embodiment. Master Blooregard, for instance, who appears rather 'involved' with his creator…" he halted, squinting to distinguish what exactly they were doing. He shirked and she smirked, suppressing a laugh. Staring too long had procured exactly the wrong answers.

She nudged him in the ribs to continue, because he frowned admonishingly. While he had no valid reason to chastise them, she knew he'd jump at the chance. Why deprive them of their happiness?

"Ah, yes, I was saying…everything intangible has physical roots. Master Blooregard is the embodiment of mischief and blatant rule breaking-"

She rolled her eyes. "Leave him alone for one night, Mr. H. Let him be with Mac. It's not every night they can be this open."

Sighing, reluctantly attributing another mental 'point' to his lover, he continued. "And you, Miss Frances, are the embodiment of love."

The statement surprised her and she answered in a rather uncivilized manner. "Huh?"

"You represent everything I love. Your beautiful, silken, flaming red hair; your sparkling jade eyes, patience, fortitude, perseverance, bravery, intellect…" he trailed off upon spotting her deep blush.

"Wow, Mr. H. You really know how to compliment a girl," she murmured, embarrassed. Nonetheless, she grinned. "But do go on."

"You are kind, forthright, attractive…"

"Okay, enough already. Save some adjectives for yourself," she teased, pecking him on the lips. "Don't run your whole vocabulary by me, either, or we'll be here until next winter."

Grinning, he replied, "Duly noted."

Silence descended and the only sounds they heard were the other's heartbeat and breaths. Tenderly, he kissed her brow and she pushed him back onto the soft earth. The two laid side by side, arms wrapped firmly about each other, and utterly oblivious to the rest. It was a nice feeling, not to be responsible for anything and to be together.

"I love you," Frankie whispered. "And I always will."

"I love you too, Frankie," he replied, shutting his own eyes.

Suddenly, she sprang up with an abrupt exclamation. Directing her finger skyward, she shook her head at him. He blinked, taken by surprise. However, sitting up for him was not quite as easy as her and he attempted several times before succeeding.

"We're going to miss the shower!" she cried.

"Oh. Was _that _why we came out here?" he teased. "I'd forgotten, amidst our debates and kisses."

"Oh, just shut up and watch."

"Now, is that the proper way to speak to your employer?" he replied mockingly, grinning despite himself. "Miss Frances, show some respect."

"Uh, huh, sure, _Funny Bunny_."

"That is not fair!"

"No, but it _was _easy." She smirked.

"To use your words, 'just shut up and watch'," he replied and she rolled her eyes. They did as she suggested, though, the natural phenomenon paled in comparison to the thrill of spending eternity in each other's arms.

* * *

"**How do you spell that again?"**

"L-O-V-E…"

"Great," Frankie muttered. "If I hear that song one more time, I will s-h-o-o-t myself."

"What song?" Mr. Herriman inquired, hopping beside her.

"L-O-L-O-V-E…"

"K-I-L-L Ashlee…" she muttered.

"I suppose to her, love is a four letter word," Mr. Herriman quipped and she pivoted, surprised by the humor in his eyes. Grinning, he grabbed her hands and proceeded to whirl her about. Mouth agape, she stared at him.

"There is no way I'm dancing to such a crappy, badly sung song-" she protested.

"Oh, but you m-u-s-t," he said, beaming.

"I'm going to hurt you," she muttered and he laughed, twirling her like a ballerina.

"But, Frankie, that is m-e-a-n," he replied and she growled in frustration. Guffawing, he cradled her, his paw on her waist. They were lucky no one was around, but if looks could kill, Mr. Herriman would have been served for dinner.

"Aargh! Why do you keep doing that?" she cried, irritated. "Stop spelling out words everyone knows already!"

"But isn't that how this Ashlee Simpson b-a-n-k-s? On other's stupidity?" he replied, eyes twinkling mischievously.

"Yes, but you don't have to capitalize on it too!" she groaned, his heartbeat pounding beneath her hand. He brushed his other paw against her hand and intertwined them. Anyone passing would have thought them insane.

"Why not? I a-d-o-r-e your tempestuous rages," he said and she gritted her teeth, jade eyes flashing dangerously.

"What will it take to shut you up!" she snarled and he chuckled.

"A kiss would suffice."

"Fine," she huffed.

"F-i-n-e," he said, grinning from ear to ear.

"Aargh! I'm going to kiss you so hard, you won't be able to talk for a week!"

"Is that a t-h-r-e-a-t?"

Frankie growled inhumanly, snatched him by the ears, and planted one on him. It indeed was rather ferocious and he stumbled backwards, stunned.

"There." She beamed at her handiwork.

"What a k-i-s-s."

"Aargh!"

* * *

"**Ah, the wonders of…"**

Sex. Well, love was a 'many splendor thing' too, but sex beat all. At least, that's what Frankie thought as she hummed to herself and dusted the flowers. Wilt tapped her on the shoulder, she danced and rocked her hips when she turned around, and beamed at him. He stopped, completely at a loss for words.

"Um, Frankie? You're supposed to be dusting the porcelain vases," he said blankly, uncertain how to proceed in the wake of her bizarre, uncanny good mood. Thursday entailed the longest list of chores than any other day of the week and yet, here she was, euphoric and enraptured. Needless to say, it left him a little bewildered.

"Am I? Oh, thanks!" she said, still grinning. "You're the best."

"Um…'k…" he said, slowly backing away. "I'm sorry to bother you…"

Bloo, popping bubblegum loudly and sliding on a cooking pan, waved merrily at Frankie on his way down the stairs.

"Hey, Frankie. What's shakin'?"

"Nothing much," she called back, accidentally washing the begonias. Bloo stared.

"Frankie, are you okay? You haven't yelled at me yet."

"I'm fine. Everything is fine. I love the world," she replied and he fell promptly off his pan. Staring at her like she'd recently had a lobotomy, he scrutinized her and paced about her as if a glance over would inform him unequivocally what had transpired to Foster's resident caretaker.

_Aliens took her brain. That's it_, he deduced, slowly backing away like Wilt, and fleeing the scene. He didn't want any part of said aliens.

"Hey, Ed," she cried, waving the same hand with her sponge. It went flying and whacked Duchess in the face. Soapy water dripped, destroying her makeup. Duchess looked murderous. Or, rather, as murderous as one with limited facial expressions can appear.

"Um, hello, Frankie," he said, having heard from Wilt Frankie's odd behavior but braving it anyway.

"Why es you so happy today?"

"Well, I could tell you," she replied, grinning and rapping him gently on the nose, "but it's a secret."

"I promise not to tell," he swore.

Leaning over, she whispered in his ear and he jumped up, staring at her in disbelief. She nodded, smirking, and he promptly spurted as fast as a hellhound away from her. The sound of his hooves echoed in the hall.

"Miss Frances, you didn't!" Herriman called and she laughed, leaning on a nearby broom. Her eyes twinkled mischievously.

"What do you think?" she replied, rocking her hips. He reddened beneath his silver grey fur.

"You…you…" he stammered.

"Our secret's safe," she confirmed, grinning devilishly. Dancing suggestively around him, she surveyed the scene and pecked him on the cheek. If it was possible, he turned still redder.

"Hey- when you're good to mama, mama's good to you."

* * *

**Mesozoic**

Love predates history. Actually, that's a rather presumptuous claim to make, considering history can be interpreted various ways; the Gregorian calendar, the Hebrew one, and etc. Not to mention time itself could be measured in scientific periods (i.e., the Mesozoic) and whatnot. Regardless, it can overcome various obstacles, in any time period. Age, race, sex; you name it and love has beaten the odds.

So why not an imaginary rabbit and a human girl? Of course, it's never happened before, but who's to say it shouldn't? Who's to say it's so wrong?

No one has a perfect relationship with another human being. Secrets can be kept, others may snub them; the whole relationship may be a façade. One should judge on how pure the love is, not between whom.

Because love conquers all.

* * *


End file.
